The Monkey On My Back Affair
by Kei
Summary: Not all of Napoleon's problems come from THRUSH.


Title: The Monkey on My Back Affair (1/1)   
  
Author: Kei  
  
Fandom: the Man From U.N.C.L.E.  
  
Pairing: Illya/Napoleon  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Notes: a little slash, a lot of hurt and comfort, PWP.  
  
Disclaimer: the Man From U.N.C.L.E. and its characters belong to MGM -please don't sue. I'm usually broke.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Monkey on My Back Affair  
by Kei  
  
  
  
He was up on his feet almost the moment the doorbell began to ring. Unlock the door. Open the door. Pay the courier. Accept the package. Shut the door.  
  
It was that easy.   
  
And that fast.  
  
Napoleon Solo hobbled over to his dining room table, grimacing as the pain from his latest injury suffered in the name of UNCLE began to stab through the cocoon of comfort woven by the little white pill he had taken just under two hours ago...medication that had been prescribed by the head of UNCLE's medical department.  
  
For all the good the prescription was doing him right now.  
  
God, it hurt.  
  
Napoleon thumped down onto a Maplewood dining chair and, tentatively at first, began to massage the swollen flesh of his knee that he could feel even through the fine-knit fabric of his pants...easing the pain a little ...putting off the inevitable.  
  
For a while, at least.  
  
It wasn't supposed to be like this. There was a time when he would have been able to shrug off the aches, pains, and injuries that were part and parcel of being a field agent...but it was getting harder. The most recent assignment had been the proverbial breaking point.  
  
How many times had he or Illya been thrown off or somehow toppled off some sort of high ledge and come away with a fracture here or a concussion there? A hundred times between them? More? He had stopped counting long ago. But something had been different this time. Not a ledge, but the roof of a building that THRUSH had commandeered for yet another pathetic plot...a roof that had caved in when a hidden time bomb had finally counted down to zero.  
  
Too soon to escape.  
  
Funny thing -it was usually Illya who ended up adding to the growing tally of broken bones between them. This time, however, his beloved Illyusha had come out of the affair with nary a scratch or bruise. It had been his, Napoleon Antony Solo's, turn this time. He hadn't remembered much beyond the surprise he had felt as the bomb had gone off and then, waking up in the ICU of UNCLE's medical center, Illya waiting there as he always did, ice-blue eyes a virtual window to the anxiety in his soul.  
  
And there had been the pain...  
  
...the pain that had been with him upon waking...  
  
...the pain that had been with him in the realm of Morpheus...  
  
...the pain that had only been dulled, first by an I.V. drip and then, pills...  
  
...the pain that was with him now.  
  
His injuries had been extensive, the "discomfort" (as the doctor had put it) was an inevitable part of his recovery -pain management became the catch phrase of the day. That had meant more medication. At first, he hadn't wanted to take those foul-tasting nodules, but then, as the pain had seemed to grow, he had become grateful for them. Maybe too grateful.  
  
Napoleon ran a finger along the tear-strip of the package in front of him.  
  
He hadn't meant it to happen -if Illya knew, he wasn't saying, not that Napoleon could bring himself to ask. He could hide a secret as well as his Russian if the need presented itself. Napoleon could not remember the exact moment when he had stopped taking the pills to *ease* the pain and had started taking them to *avoid* the pain...and then, somewhere after that, some subconscious instinct had insisted that he simply had to have those meds...or else? Or else what, he didn't know. The only thing that UNCLE's Number One of Section Two had known at that moment was his "need" had somehow become stronger than his sense of reason...  
  
...he had needed more pills.   
  
But Medical could and would prescribe only so many...and they were talking about it being time to wean him off the meds anyway.  
  
Reason had fled altogether.  
  
But not intellect.  
  
If Napoleon Solo had learned anything from his numerous missions for UNCLE, it was that if one wanted something, one could often get it...if one knew where to look. Once upon a time, he had argued with Illya that they didn't need a computer *or* the Internet for their apartment, seeing as they had to deal with them often enough at work...but he had used both.  
  
It had been easy to find one of those medical companies that sold in bulk -no questions asked as long as one's credit rating checked out...as well as legal if not moral.   
  
Just order the item. Pay and wait for the item. Accept the item from the courier. Shut the door. Lock the door..?  
  
Napoleon could not say exactly when Illya had entered their apartment -he hadn't heard the usual jingle of keys in the lock. He hadn't heard his partner steal up behind him. He had just heard that familiar sad sigh of dismay before the man spoke. "Oh, Polya..." Just those two words and Napoleon knew that Illya understood the situation completely.  
  
Just two words.  
  
Napoleon couldn't make himself meet those piercing blue eyes. "Illya...  
I...I didn't mean for this to happen."  
  
Small, strong hands gripped Napoleon's slumped shoulders. "I understand."  
  
"'Understand'!?" Haunted brown eyes sharply met anguished blue ones. "How can you possibly understand!"  
  
Illya knelt beside his distressed partner. "Years ago in the Russian Navy...an accident in engineering..." The Russian lowered his gaze for a moment. "The injuries were severe...my recovery slow...and it was a long time before I no longer craved the Morphine."  
  
"Oh God...my Illyusha..." They held each other for a seeming eternity before Napoleon's muffled voice was heard again. "What am I gonna do..?"  
  
"I can help you through it...help you through the pain..." Illya glanced at the unopened package. "...if you'll let me."  
  
Napoleon drew a shaky breath as he stood up and held the package, turning it over in his hands. The pain in his leg spiked again, bringing with it the sirens' song of need...  
  
...and the package landed where he had deliberately aimed it...  
  
...in the trash compactor.  
  
Illya held his trembling partner's head against his shoulder, allowing the tears to come as they might.  
  
It was a beginning.  
  
  
  
  
---the end---  
  



End file.
